


Special costs more-2

by Bathilda



Series: Special costs more [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drama, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-07-06
Packaged: 2018-04-02 23:11:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4077364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bathilda/pseuds/Bathilda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After leaving Mycroft's house Greg got into the wrong car. Again. And also did his job as an undercover police officer. But at what price?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Особенное стоит дороже-2](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/119839) by Baiba. 



> Huge thanks and compliments to my beta MinMu who willingly entered tricky waters of beting a translation))

** Chapter 1 **

** Now **

Everything that had just happened was Sherlock’s fault.

“Oh, shit!” cursed Greg through gritted teeth, pressing his hand against the wound on his stomach. “Got a knife wound like a damned rookie!”

There was a warm and sticky wetness under his palm, seeping through his shirt.

Feeling a sudden bout of weakness, Greg leaned against the wall so that he didn’t crash to the concrete floor.

“Sherlock, wait!”

He heard John’s voice and smiled faintly.

“You don’t know yet how to deal with my dearest restless brother-in-law,” Greg thought. “At the moment it’s easier to stop a freight train with your bare hands than Sherlock.”

It was only John’s third case as Sherlock’s assistant, and he hadn’t yet mastered the art of not being left behind. 

Greg’s legs stopped obeying his orders, and he started slowly sliding down the wall. To his surprise John rushed to him and caught him just in time. John helped Greg to sit down and then laid him on his back.

“You didn’t follow Sherlock?”

“I’m more needed here,” answered John and carefully placed his folded jacket under Greg’s head.

“What the hell were they even doing here?” Greg thought angrily. “And I’m a fool as well! I knew I had to wait for the SWAT team and shouldn’t have tried to play the hero running across an underground garage in pursuit of a criminal in the company of amateurs.”

While Greg was mentally ranting John ripped his shirt to look at the wound. As soon as the familiar smell of blood assaulted Greg, he felt sick. His heart started beating twice as fast which was a telltale sign of an approaching panic attack. It’d been years, but this suffocating smell still haunted Greg. It invaded his dreams and made him lose control in reality. Greg hated such moments, hated his own weakness, and tried as hard as he could not to betray his feelings to his colleagues. Otherwise he wouldn’t be able to investigate murders.

Greg heard the wailing of an ambulance siren in the distance and just knew who had brought them here so fast. He scanned the place for CCTV cameras and smiled at the nearest one. 

“I’m fine,” he said without a sound looking at the camera.

He knew that in the upcoming days or even weeks Mycroft would be insufferable: Greg would have to listen to the endless lectures about the complete stupidity and recklessness of a certain police officer.

Meanwhile John unbuckled his belt and pulled his trousers down a bit to have better access to the wound.

“Mycroft and I will have a new favourite video: a man who is not my husband trying to get into my pants on a dirty garage floor,” joked Greg.

John looked at Greg’s stomach in the light of the flashlight and drew in a harsh breath. That was also Sherlock’s fault.

For the last fifteen years Greg had been treated by the same doctors. They knew his story and he didn’t have to explain to them where his numerous scars and burn marks came from… especially since he didn’t know how to do that. In all these years he couldn’t find the right words, and those that came to his mind usually stuck into his throat. 

This time he got lucky and John kept on working on his wound without a single question.

“Will I live, doc?”

“It seems that the internal organs weren’t nicked.”

“Sounds good.”

A black car drove into the garage even before the ambulance.

“This I certainly won’t survive,” Greg said.

John lifted his head and looked at Holmes-the-elder, leaving the car through the driver’s door. Mycroft didn’t look like a dangerous killer. He was ghostly pale, without his customary tie and waistcoat, and somewhat ruffled. When he tried to smooth his hair, John saw that his fingers were trembling. John didn’t like his sickly look and made a mental note to ask Sherlock about his brother’s health. It seemed that it was a good thought because Mycroft winced and rubbed his chest with the heel of his palm.

“It’s just a scratch. Nothing to worry about,” Greg said quickly and tried to rise.

“Easy, mate,” said John and made him lie down again.

“You’re a foolish boy,” hissed Mycroft accusingly. “What were you thinking? I’ll fire you, demote you! If you aren’t able to assess the risks adequately I’ll make sure you don’t have to do this at all and make you a beat bobby.”

Lestrade answered this unfair threat with such a tender look that John blinked. Would Greg just swallow it?

In fact Greg could hardly contain his laughter. His hair was grey at the temples, he was a high-ranking police officer in Scotland-Yard and for the last five years he preferred his cozy office to running with and after Sherlock. But Mycroft kept on forgetting about his age, especially when he was berating him.

“Are you gonna spank me, daddy?”

The paramedics ran to him with a rattling gurney.

“Definitely,” promised Mycroft in the same threatening voice.

“You should know that Sherlock was chasing the criminal…” John dared to say.

In the months than he had known the Lestrade-Holmeses he still couldn’t get used to the way they talked to each other. He couldn’t get used to the fact that there was another, private version of Mycroft with whom Greg constantly flirted and joked, ignoring his threats. On the other hand, Greg’s better half never flirted or joked in return which made John believe that there was no other version of Mycroft, that “not arrogant”, “not dangerous” and “not bastard” Mycroft existed purely in Greg’s imagination. But then again, that would mean that Greg was at least allowed to delude himself, and that alone spoke volumes.

Mycroft kept on staring at Greg with a dark look, not paying any attention to John and the paramedics.

“What’s with Sherlock?” asked Greg.

“He is on his way home. We intercepted your attacker a couple of blocks from here.”

“One, two…” the paramedics were preparing to lift Greg to the gurney.

“Don’t forget that he has to be alive for the trial…” Greg said to Mycroft.

“…three!”

“Damn!” cursed Greg. “Or, maybe, not”. 

“Sir, we’re taking him to the hospital,” one of the paramedics said to Mycroft.

“Don’t leave me alone!”

Greg knew that if they sedated him and he fell asleep only Mycroft’s presence would prevent him from being stuck in a nightmare full of absolute darkness and the smell of blood.

“I can come with you,” offered John. He sincerely wished to help Greg and would hang around for moral support, thinking that Holmes would allege some important state matters and leave Greg to the hospital staff.

Mycroft furrowed his eyebrows, turned around and scanned John with a heavy suspicious look.

“There is no need for that, Dr. Watson. I can take care of my husband.”

This time Greg couldn’t help but laugh quietly. He forgot to warn John that Mycroft could be very jealous. Now Mycroft wouldn’t leave his side even if there was World War III, and, perhaps, Greg would be able to sleep normally.

Mycroft’s reproachful grumbling would lead him out of any darkness.

** Then **

His cheeks were still burning, and even an icy wind couldn’t bring down this fever. For his cheeks were burning not from the slaps but from the shame and embarrassment, eating Greg alive. 

Greg walked through the gates keeping his head down. He didn’t want to look the security guards in the eyes.

Why did everything have to end like this? Why hadn’t he told the truth at the very beginning? Why had he listened to Detective Carline and let himself be persuaded that “the big boss” that had picked him up was evil personified and ate police cadets for breakfast? Greg almost immediately had realized that Mycroft wasn’t like that…

Greg couldn’t forget the look in Mycroft’s eyes when he pointed a gun at him. He didn’t remember his hurtful words, but this look haunted him. Now Greg understood how difficult it was for Mycroft to believe that someone could really like him as he was. He must have been betrayed many times, and now had to go through this once again. 

Greg groaned, feeling helpless and useless, and suddenly stopped. What was he doing? He couldn’t change what had happened, but he still could do something about the future!

He was suddenly seized with a desire to go back and bang at the gates until Mycroft came to him, and then talk, and plead, and beg for forgiveness…

Having decided to do just that Greg turned back and only then noticed a black car following him. Stunned, he watched as it drew up to him and stopped.

“Mycroft?”

Greg couldn’t believe this miracle, but mentally prayed that it was exactly that. He even imagined Mycroft leaving the car and saying, “Let’s try again.”

Time passed, but nothing happened. Greg imagined a few more scenarios: severe “We need to talk”, fantastic and almost improbable “I fell in love with you and won’t let you go”, but no one left the car. Greg was shifting from foot to foot, looking at the tinted windows of the car and finally decided that Mycroft must still have been angry. He reminded himself that the first thing he should do was apologize. He had to say that he tortured himself over what had happened more than Mycroft could imagine. Now Greg pictured how he would be babbling and rambling until Mycroft stopped him with a long kiss.

Oh, yes, please, let it happen like this!

The door of the car finally opened and Greg got inside without any hesitation. Immediately he was disappointed since there was no one else except the driver in the car.

At first Greg was confused, but then realized that, of course, Mycroft wouldn’t come to get him himself, but instead would send the car. That was just like sensible and precise Mycroft. Of course he needed time to recover and think everything over. When he weighed all pros and cons he had decided that it would be better that they talk not in the street, but at home, where a cup of hot tea and dry clothes were already waiting for Greg.

Elated, he smiled at the driver or, rather, the back of driver’s head, and sank comfortably into the back seat.

He was jittery with anticipation and decided he needed a distraction and the best way to distract himself in these circumstances was to talk to the driver. Who knew, maybe they would even become friends? After all, if everything went well with Mycroft, Greg would probably meet this driver many more times.

“Hi! Wretched weather, right?” Greg decided that it was as good start as any.

There was no answer.

Then Greg heard a double click – the doors were locked.

“We’re going back to Mycroft… eh, Mr. Holmes, aren’t we?”

Again there was nothing but silence.

Greg tried to look the driver in the eyes in the rear-view mirror, but he pulled his cap so low that it was impossible.

Greg wanted to believe in his fantasies about a miracle making-up so much that he brushed away all his suspicions.

“It’s not like you think… you’ll be surprised to find out who I really am! You must have thought that I’m…”

Suddenly the driver turned around and sprayed something into Greg’s face. The world around Greg immediately swayed, grew dark and started spinning. Then the car started moving, and Greg lost conscience.

* * *

Mycroft Holmes’s colleagues called him “Iceman” behind his back. Maybe because of his constantly unreadable and impassive face or, maybe, because all his actions and behavior were always dictated by rules, logic and expediency. Anyway Mycroft approved of this nickname and considered it a compliment of sorts. Year after year he was methodically liberating himself from passions and emotions, refusing to be influenced by them. Ordinary people made mistakes, being affected by their sentiments and desires, and Mycroft believed with pride that he had reached the level of perfection where he no longer made such mistakes and only corrected other people’s errors. After all, that was his job. 

But today he couldn’t regain control over his emotions, couldn’t get back his balance and composure. He tried, God knew he tried. He spent half a day in fruitless attempts to justify his actions and persuade himself that his mistake was insignificant and should be ignored. He cancelled a few important meetings so that he could thoroughly study Cadet Lestrade’s personnel file. Who could have thought that this personnel file would be one more silent reproach? Greg turned out to be an excellent student with commendatory references and bright career prospects. Not only Scotland-Yard was interested in him, but some secret services had also set their sights on him.

He was clever, loyal, honest and smart.

No bad habits.

Fully acknowledging his own cynicism, Mycroft tried to find at least one shortcoming and imperfection in Greg, but couldn’t. His only weak spot was his naiveté, but that was normal for his age and shouldn’t last long. In the profession that Greg had chosen people tended to learn to be harsh and suspicious very fast.

“Are you all right, Mr. Holmes? How do you feel?” asked the driver James which was too familiar and improper.

“I’ll have to get rid of him,” Mycroft thought.

It was unacceptable for him to get really friendly with a servant, and pretending to be so just out of politeness was too tiresome and useless.

“I am not a person, but a function,” said Mycroft under his breath, disgusted with himself. “Functions don’t get sick. They only glitch and malfunction.”

“Sorry, sir?”

Fortunately James didn’t hear that.

“I’m fine. To Scotland-Yard, please.”

* * *

The small room was unpleasantly stuffy. Either the air-conditioner didn’t work, or there was none. A short and pudgy man was sitting at the table and wiping sweat from his red face with his hand every other minute.

“Yes, commissioner, sir, I understand,” he was saying into the phone in a constrained voice when Mycroft entered. “Mr. Holmes?”

He looked at Mycroft with obvious alarm.

“I assume you were informed of my visit,” said Mycroft, and the man, who was Detective Carline, nodded. “Then I am waiting for your explanation,” added Mycroft dryly and sat in the chair for visitors with the air of the owner of this whole office.

“Mr. Holmes, it’s just a misunderstanding. I never thought…”

Mycroft tried to stop his useless excuses with a wave of his hand, but the detective kept on talking, “You don’t have to worry. Trust me, it won’t leave this room.”

Mycroft raised a brow mockingly. It seemed that this ridiculous detective thought that he had accidently obtained some discrediting information concerning Mycroft. Now it was clear why Greg’s superiors had insisted that he had to play his part to the end. They obviously had thought that having such information could potentially cost them not only their careers, but also their lives.

“I am waiting for an explanation about Cadet Lestrade.”

“Ah, about Greg…” murmured Carline. “What about him? He’s just a harmless boy. He won’t cause any troubles. I know him well enough to say that he’s an honest lad and…” He trailed off under Mycroft’s fixed unblinking look, then opened and closed his mouth a few times like a fish pulled out of water, and said after an obscenely long pause, “Please, take pity on him.”

“At least he had the decency to ask for Greg,” noted Mycroft mentally and asked out loud, “How did it happen that you chose an inexperienced cadet for a dangerous undercover operation?”

Carline thought it over and took a few thick folders out of a drawer. 

“It was our last chance to catch a murderer using bait. Before Lestrade we sent our best men, but it all came to nothing. They were just not the right age. This bloody bastard…” Carline cleared his throat and continued, “I’m sorry, but you should have seen his victims… Anyway, he kills only young boys, and where would I get an experienced teenage police officer? All the victims were about eighteen, and Lestrade looks like his type.”

Listening to the detective, Mycroft studied the case and realized that Carline was right: the serial killer’s psychological profile was made by a team of seasoned detectives and renowned criminal psychologists, and luring him with bait was justified.

“Besides, Cadet Lestrade is not completely inexperienced,” Carline kept on talking, “he was a constable before being admitted to the College. Not for long, that’s true, but he was commended for his work. He is physically strong…”

“You made a mistake when you ordered him to keep up his game,” said Mycroft, closing the folder.

“It wasn’t an order! I just gave him a bit of advice and, well, if something happened between you and him, it’s nothing, really. Not worth ruining his career over this. He’s a smart lad. I’d gladly take him on my team.”

Carline shut up abruptly, finally noticing Mycroft’s disdainfully curled lips.

“Had I told him to take off his trousers,” thought Mycroft, “he would have done so in a second. Although Carline would have been surprised that I had taken an interest in him because a monster like me surely needs only young and beautiful virgins as sacrifices, and not someone like him.” Mycroft said aloud, “You are a poor judge of a character if you think that your protégé could do this. That’s bad for a leader.”

Carline’s face crumpled.

“So he told you everything and refused your… you?”

It was not only useless, but downright unseemly to explain everything to such a man, and Mycroft asked instead, “Have you seen Cadet Lestrade today?”

“No,” answered Carline and cast a quick look at his mobile phone. “Strange, but his phone either has no service, or is switched off, and he didn’t return to the campus yesterday.” 

“That doesn’t seem like him,” said Mycroft pensively. According to Greg’s personnel file he was the type of man who would have definitely made a report after a failed operation.

“Yes, it doesn’t,” agreed Carline.

Both sat still for a few seconds, looking at each other. Mycroft paled, while Carline turned even more red than before.

“No, it can’t be. Lestrade’s not a fool. He wouldn’t have got into a strange car without informing the support team,” said Carline.

“He would if he thought that it was my car,” mentally answered Mycroft and pulled his phone out of his pocket. But before making a call he warned Carline, “If something happens to Lestrade, you will wish you were in his place.”

Carline visibly shivered. There was neither anger, nor hatred in Mycroft’s voice. Mycroft wasn’t threatening Carline, just informing, and that was what made it so frightening.

Carline snatched his phone as if chased by the hounds of Hell.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

**Chapter 2**

 

**Then**

Greg came to very slowly. He couldn’t yet see or hear, let alone move, but he could remember what had happened to him. He could still mentally see the driver’s face – that scary, inhuman face. He had seen it only for a few seconds, but it seemed that it had imprinted in his memory forever. Such a man couldn’t work for Mycroft, and that meant that Greg’s hunt for the serial killer had been successful. Only this time Greg hadn’t had his earpiece and microphone with him. How could he have let his guard down? And how was he supposed to get out of this?

No, he shouldn’t think of that. Now it was time to pull himself together and stop panicking.

Blinking, Greg tried to look around and only then realized that he couldn’t see anything because he had a blindfold on. He fidgeted and found out that he was tied by his ankles and wrists to something flat and smooth, like a table. He didn’t like any of this. He still couldn’t hear anything and didn’t know whether he somehow had become deaf or the silence around him was really that absolute. He could hear neither a clock ticking nor the dripping of the water northe sounds of cars. There simply couldn’t be such dead silence in an ordinary room. Either he was deep underground or in a soundproof place.

No matter how hard Greg tried to think positively, fear started wrapping its tentacles around him like an octopus.

He didn’t know how long he had lain there when he heard shuffling footsteps.

His first instinct was to beg for mercy, but his tongue seemed to be glued to the roof of his mouth and refused to move. The footsteps stilled, and Greg heard someone’s heavy breathing coming out in pants close to him. This someone felt his pulse, and then Greg heard a sudden metal clunk which made his heart clench in fear. But nothing terrible happened; instead Greg only felt his shirt being cut into strips. His sharpened hearing discerned a methodical clicking of the scissors which touched his bare chest a few times. Now he was naked from the waist up and felt even more vulnerable.

The stranger made a noise close to a delighted breath and seemed to still for a while. After a long pause Greg felt something cool and thick, like a massage oil, being poured onto his chest. It ran down to his armpits and stomach, and the stranger rubbed it with a sponge into Greg’s torso. Then he started muttering monotonously something unintelligible, like he was praying in a language unknown to Greg. Greg vividly imagined horrible pictures of a pagan shrine in the basement of a gothic castle and chanting followed by a human sacrifice.

The muttering grew faster and louder and completely incoherent, with hysterical and angry overtones, and then Greg’s side flared in pain. He cried out, but was shushed, and then his other side flared in similar pain.

“Don’t, please,” asked Greg, fully understanding that it was useless.

He heard a short laugh, and pain burned a long strip across his stomach. Greg moaned, and his tormentor only laughed louder. Methodically and unhurriedly he made a few cuts across Greg’s lower ribs, first on the one side and then on the other, as if drawing a painting he had in mind. Greg’s involuntary cries and moans only incited the killer, and his painting got more chaotic and less premeditated. Soon Greg could no longer discern where he was cut because he was in pain all over. His awareness grew less and less clear as his mind refused to register what was going on. It took Greg a while to understand that the torture was over.

Once again there was nothing but complete silence…silence and a heavy suffocating smell of iron, assaulting Greg. His blood was leaking from his multiple wounds and trickling down to the table, pooling under Greg. He wasn’t afraid to die from the blood loss because he knew that no victim had died of it yet. No, such a merciful death wasn’t in the killer’s plan.

* * *

The huge plastic clock on the wall kept on drawing Mycroft’s attention. It had been eleven hours already since Greg’s kidnapping and two since they found out about it.

Mycroft put himself in charge of the investigation, and no one dared to question it. Who could do that? Certainly not Carline who went out of his way to please Mycroft, and not the superintendent who realized what was to follow if he refused Holmes.

The desk was cluttered with all sorts of papers: case files, forensic reports, psychologists’ analysis and profiles, evaluations, logs of actions – all these were given to Mycroft as soon as he demanded. Mycroft also requested the help of the best MI-6 analysts and made some of the best specialists look through the CCTV records.  They traced Greg’s way from Mycroft’s house and found the place where he got into an unknown car. Its plate was a fake, but the car itself could say something because it was a luxury Jaguar which wasn’t a common  car.

Mycroft watched this recording again and again, trying to find something new that everyone had missed. On the screen Greg dragged himself along the street towards the nearest Tube. The black car was already following him but he was too much engrossed into his thoughts to notice it. What would have happened if Greg had decided to come back? Mycroft would have wanted to hug him and ensure that this misunderstanding would be resolved, to let Greg stay with him, at least until he got disappointed in him and understood that Mycroft never deserved his love. But Mycroft knew that in reality he wouldn’t have afforded such luxury. Most likely he wouldn’t have let Greg back into the house and would have humiliated him even more, asking his security to deal with a bothersome guest.

On the screen Greg hesitantly fidgeted next to the car, looking at its windows. His face betrayed his thoughts and emotions and looking at him Mycroft felt as if he was immersed in his dreams, hopes and fears. For him it was a real hell without a chance for atonement… but no, hell was what was going on with them now and what was yet to come.

Mycroft took out of his pocket a little can of mint candies – his latest attempt to stop smoking. This time he had lasted for half of a year and wasn’t going to surrender once again to this addiction.

The door of the car opened. From this angle Greg’s face wasn’t clear enough to discern his expression, but Mycroft could easily imagine it because he remembered how Greg’s eyes had been shining with joy, how happily he could smile…

The candies went into the bin.

“Give me a cigarette and a lighter.”

Carline mentally thanked God that he could please Holmes at least in that, and rushed to the drawer where he kept a pack of Kents.

The office immediately became filled with smoke.

Mycroft thought that he should have moved to a more comfortable place from the very beginning, but he hadn’t because he hadn’t wanted to waste precious time.

He created an online conference on his computer and asked his people, “Any news?”

“We traced them to Marylebone High Street, but lost them after that.”

“Keep looking.”

“We will do all that we can, sir.”

Mycroft understood that but personally he was wasting time.

Time… The clock was ticking disgustingly loud, reminding him of the inevitable. Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock.

This ticking was followed by swish, swish, swish – that was the sound of a scalpel, cutting Greg’s flesh. This monotonous sound that Mycroft imagined seemed to be real and didn’t let him concentrate.

The figures in the corner of the screen indicated that it had been eleven hours and twenty one minutes.

The killer always started with his victim’s stomach, then moved higher, to his chest, and then cut his arms and legs. On the second day he turned his bleeding, helpless and prostrate victim on his stomach and everything started anew. His face was mutilated last.

Eleven hours twenty two minutes.

Swish, swish, swish – in Mycroft’s head this sound was as loud as an alarm bell.

Somewhere, where Mycroft couldn’t get despite all his money, power and abilities, Greg’s stomach was being mercilessly cut. The tips of Mycroft’s fingers itched and throbbed. He remembered how smooth and silky Greg’s skin was. Perfect.

His phone rang. Mycroft recognized this number. He was expecting this call.

“What is going on?” demanded Soyers, the Head of MI-6 “Why are my people drawn into a simple police investigation? Why is London on high alert because of some Police Cadet?”

“Not ‘some’, ’my’,” Mycroft mentally corrected him and said out loud, “I’ll owe you.”

This promise cost dear. Many people dreamt of having Mycroft Holmes owe them, but how could anyone hook a person who didn’t need anything for himself?

There was a long silence – apparently Soyers needed time to calculate his profit.

“You have carte blanche for two days,” Soyers finally said. “All our resources are at your disposal.”

That was extremely generous. That also meant that he’d ask much in return.

“Good. Two days are more than enough.”

By the end of that time Greg’s face would be covered in cuts.

Swish, swish, swish.

An invisible blade pierced through Mycroft’s heart, and his vision blackened for a second because of a sharp pain.

“Ask them to prepare the bodies in the morgue,” he said to Carline. “I’m going to look at them.”

Mycroft couldn’t stay in this office any longer. His phone rang again, and this time it was Sherlock.

“I am busy.”

“You’d want to hear this: it’s interesting. He’s not who you think he is. I saw it at once!” Sherlock said smugly. “He’s a Police Cadet, working undercover. They’re trying to catch some trivial serial killer. What I don’t understand is that why he didn’t tell you that. He must be even more stupid than I thought.”

“Come to Bart’s. I need a fresh eye.”

“Bart’s?” Sherlock was so surprised that he even clarified, “The morgue?”

“To look at the victims of this… trivial serial killer.”

“Send me the files,” said Sherlock after a long pause. He tried to sound business-like and cold, but his next line betrayed his true feelings, “We’ve got three days, will we make it?”

Sherlock pretended to be like his brother, heartless and unfeeling, not capable of empathy. He could fool other people, but not Mycroft who knew him too well not to understand that it was a lie.

“Less than that. He left my house at five.”

Sherlock just disconnected.

* * *

 

Greg tried again and again to break free from his leather restraints, pulling and twisting them, but in vain. All he achieved was pain in his arms, spreading from his wrists to shoulders. He didn’t dare to cry out, fearing that this would bring his tormentor too soon, and could only gasp for air with a dry mouth.

Everything was useless.

He was overjoyed when his blindfold moved from his eye, but he still could see nothing because he was surrounded by complete darkness. He once watched a film where a character was handcuffed and had to break his thumbs to get free. Would Greg have to do the same?

“Bastard!” Greg shouted despite all his fears . “You are a bloody bastard! Sick pervert!”

He was an idiot because he attracted attention. He heard unhurried footsteps, and saw a faint light on the wall. Was it a flashlight or, maybe, a candle? He had no time to figure it out because the next second he was blinded by a bright light. He squeezed his eyes, at first instinctively, and then he just didn’t have the courage to open them. Seeing a horrible face which looked more like a macabre mask once was more than enough. It would plague Greg until the end of his life. Although, considering the circumstances, his life wouldn’t be long enough to be really concerned about it.

“Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to call you that. Okay? Just let me go, please. I won’t tell anyone about you, promise.”

He was disgusted with his own humiliatingly cowardly voice.

The killer adjusted his blindfold, muttering something under his breath. This time his tone was guilty and sincerely regretful.

Greg could barely suppress a hysterical laugh. They seemed to be not a killer and his victim, but members of a gentlemen club: “I beg your pardon, sir, but can I torture you a bit more?” “No problem, sir, and I apologize beforehand for my lack of control if I scream from pain.”

Greg heard the clanking of some kind of dishes and a splash of water and then a stench of alcohol permeated his nostrils.

A wet sponge, sliding along his cuts, stung, and alcoholic swabs burned, but this time Greg was firmly resolved not to make any sound. He jerked at every touch, but stayed silent, hoping that it would keep the killer in the phase of remorse a bit longer.

Then something suddenly pierced his stomach.

Greg drew a loud sharp breath though his clenched teeth and was immediately backhanded.

His skin was pierced again. And again. And again. Greg was panting, trying to do it as quiet as he could. Prick, another prick, and another… His tormentor had decided to stitch the deepest cuts: entertainment and care at the same time. Could it be that he didn’t want his toy to break so soon?

After this artistic darning was finished, the room was filled with silence once again. Judging by the killer’s contented wheezing he was admiring his handiwork.

“Bastard!” mentally swore Greg.

The killer took a shuddering breath and left the room. Or, rather, ran out.

Only when he could no longer hear his footsteps, Greg released the breath he was holding.

He had to try and bear everything, to last as long as he could.  What if someone was looking for him, after all? He had…  His thoughts spun out of control from here.

* * *

Mycroft carefully had studied the pathologists’ reports, but printed words and photographs were one thing, and looking at a dead body, covered with cuts and burns… quite another. What seemed to be most bizarre thing was that some cuts were stitched and treated with iodine.

“Young male, seventeen years old, with apparent signs of a violent death, namely lots of stab and slash wounds…” the pathologist’s voice was impassive and never wavered as he kept on listing and describing the victim’s wounds.

“Silence!” commanded Mycroft and turned to Sherlock. “What can you tell me?”

Next to each body there was a “live” photo of the victim.

“Hm…”

Sherlock had started using again: it was clear by his ashen face, deep shadows under his eyes and pustules on his lips. The harsh morgue light outlined it all, and Mycroft thought with sadness that soon he would have to forcefully have Sherlock detoxed and lock him into rehab.

“Were they really hustlers?”

“What do you mean?”

“How many prostitutes have you met in your life? Not elite ones, not escorts, but from the very bottom?”

“That’s your area of expertise, and not my social circle."

“And apparently not of those who investigated this case before. That’s why they didn’t notice the obvious.”

Mycroft nodded, lost in his thoughts. Sherlock was a vivid example of what he was trying to say.

According to the killer’s psychological profile all his victims were young male prostitutes, but other than age and profession there was nothing in common between them. Although now it was clear that while they all had different features and body types, they had one more thing in common – unblemished perfect skin. Just like Greg’s. That couldn’t be a coincidence. It was impossible to accidently find so many low-rank hustlers with perfect skin, so the killer had to look for them specifically.

“He can have burns, either chemical or from a fire…” started Sherlock, but Mycroft interrupted him.

“No, he never had good healthy skin.”

He took out his phone and called the MI6 agents, working on the case.

“I need a list of people who have suffered since childhood from diseases that deformed their skin, aged 25-45, with any kind of medical training. Not necessarily medical school, it could be nurses’ training. Also check if some of them had an ill relative who was treated at home. Crosscheck with those who own a Jaguar XJ and/or got a sizable inheritance in the last five years.”

“Why an inheritance?” Sherlock asked.

“He got financially independent and could prepare a place for keeping and torturing his victims.  We can leave now. There is nothing else for us here. I am going to Vauxhall, and you…” Mycroft waved his hand and finished, “anywhere you want.”

“If it wasn’t for my comment, you’d never have guessed about his skin. You need me here,” said Sherlock stubbornly.

Despite the circumstances Mycroft was pleased for he had always wanted to get Sherlock interested in working for the government, and now he had managed to do that for the first time.

“Of course. You’re the leading expert in the London gutter.”

* * *

With his hands deep in his pockets Mycroft stood at the window in his office. The city was already shrouded in twilight, but was as busy and loud as ever.

It had been sixteen hours since Greg’s abduction, but they still hadn’t got any clue as to where he was.

Sherlock had settled comfortably in a chair and was now studying multiple reports. In the last two hours they hadn’t said a word to each other.

“Emerson said that the car hasn’t been found yet,” said Mycroft’s aide from the doorstep.

“Are they sure that they searched all the possible car parks, garages and underground parking?”

Oliver Brown had been Mycroft’s assistant for seven years, but he had never heard such tension and even worry in his boss’s voice. He always had thought that Mycroft wasn’t even capable of emotions or, at least, demonstrating them, but now his image of a collected, cool-headed and impassionate man was falling to pieces because of some boy. Who was this Cadet Lestrade? If he was lucky enough to survive, Oliver would be curious to meet him.

Sherlock rose and stood next to his brother.

Oliver remembered too well what could happen to a messenger who had brought bad news, and that’s why he stepped inside very cautiously.

“Everything was checked, sir, except private garages. Twenty such garages aren’t covered by CCTV or any other kind of surveillance. Field agents are waiting for your order to break-in and start searching them.”

Sherlock snorted derisively. Mycroft told Brown, “That was in the last report. I already knew that. What’s new?”

“We haven’t yet got lists from the hospitals, and without them the analysts can’t do anything.”

Mycroft drew a sharp breath. So, there was nothing new then, only known facts that couldn’t help.

“Expand the car search area to five more miles.”

But no, that wasn’t enough.

“Wait! Start searching private garages. On my authority.”

Brown swallowed nervously. His boss must have gone mad! Such a reckless arbitrary decision could have serious consequences even for the powerful Mycroft Holmes.

“Do it!” Mycroft forcefully ordered through clenched teeth.

Brown, who had been frozen to the spot, jumped.

“Yes, sir!”

Then he fled the office.

Mycroft turned and stared at the window.

Sixteen hours and fifteen minutes. Every second was precious, but time was slipping like water though fingers.

Now there was no more room for cuts on Greg’s stomach.

Swish, swish, swish.

Mycroft pressed his forehead to the cool window glass.

There was almost no hair on Greg’s chest. It had been actually funny, when Greg had said that he had no idea that his nipples were so sensitive. As if something could not be sensitive at his age.

“Hold on, just a bit more, and we will find you,” begged Mycroft mentally.

When he was trained for special ops, he was taught to abstract himself from pain and keep a clear mind and be calm while being tortured. Theoretically his pain threshold was unbelievably high comparing to other people. But Greg wasn’t him and at this very moment he was in unbearable pain, was scared and in despair. Mycroft could only guess that if he was desperate and without hope enough he might beg the killer not for his life, but for a quick death.

“God, please, let him go through this and wait for me.” This time Mycroft’s silent plea was addressed to God, although he had never really believed in Him.

Worse than that:  now he didn’t believe in himself either.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to apologize for such a long wait - unfortunately real life got in a way. I really hope that the last chapter will be posted very soon))

 

** Chapter 3 **

** Then **

To his own surprise Greg managed to fall asleep despite all his pain. Apparently his physical and mental exhaustion reached the critical level where his body and mind simply shut down. But his sleep was shallow, more like a feverish slumber, although it brought Greg some respite from pain. But the sleep also caused his muscles to suddenly relax against his will, and Greg peed himself. He woke up with a start, but not fully. He just laid there and absently thought that it was very uncomfortable and embarrassing to lie in wet pants. He also thought that humans were strange animals: not long ago he had thrashed about, suffered, and been scared. He had bruised and scratched his wrists and had strained his sinews trying to free himself of his restraints. He had been wondering if he would be found and saved. But now he just didn’t care. A few hours ago he had been biting his lips so that he wouldn’t cried out, and now his pain seemed to be distant and not important. It was still there, but now Greg didn’t focus on it, and his body kept on functioning, no matter what. At the moment it needed water.

Greg was so thirsty that his tongue seemed to be twice as large, and his mouth was as dry as a desert. The taste of blood from bitten lips only made his thirst even worse.

His body also needed food. In the past Greg had always lost his appetite in stressful situations.

He desperately wished he could move and change his position because all his body had long gone numb. The small of his back ached dully. He could hardly feel his legs and arms, but even the slightest movement could still manage to cause an unpleasant pain in his stitches.

His body was demanding rest and warmth.

Greg felt as if he were divided in two: his out-of-body mind registered the needs of his physical vessel with absolute calmness, even impassively, as if it were someone else’s body.

Then again, who cared what his body wanted? He wouldn’t last long, so it didn’t matter. When the killer came again, he would start drawing his “painting” and wouldn’t stop until there was no “canvas” left. 

This time Greg was indifferent to the sounds of the approaching footsteps, and he didn’t tense in anticipation of the first cut, didn’t even jerk when the knife cut him…well, almost didn’t jerk. But still, this time he was flinching and softly hissing from pain not as often and violently as before.

Apparently the killer didn’t like it. He stepped away from Greg, and when he came back he roughly pressed something hot to Greg’s collarbone. Something very, very hot. When Greg’s wail died, the killer touched the brand mark he’d just made, and again pressed the red-hot marking iron to Greg’s skin. And again, after Greg’s screaming died, and again…

In a while Greg’s cries wove in one unstoppable desperate howl of pain, but the killer kept on branding him.

Greg was hearing his own howling as if from afar, as if it was someone else’s scream.

“That must be how people lose their minds,” Greg thought listlessly. “That’s good. If I go mad I won’t know what’s going on. I won’t remember what’s waiting for me. I won’t be afraid any more. But it’d be even better if I faint now and never come to.”

Suddenly Greg realized that his pleas were heard: he hadn’t noticed that he had lost consciousness for a while, and for now his torture was over. He was alone. But he had no time to be happy about it because he heard footsteps once again.

Another round of torture was waiting for him. Greg didn’t know what the killer would do to him this time, but he was sure that it would be much worse than everything before that.

“Please, no more, please…”

* * *

Another of Mycroft’s aides barged in the office without knocking.

“The lists are ready.”

Mycroft snatched the folder with the report from his hands.

“We have found six men; all of them match your description.”

Mycroft’s phone rang.

“They have found the car,” said the agent on the other end of the line.

Mycroft’s heart missed a beat.

“In a garage that belongs to Richard Barr,” carried on the agent, “whose name is in the list of the patients with skin diseases.”

Now Mycroft’s heart started beating twice as fast.

“He had a rare type of inborn ichthyosis or fish-skin disease. He was arrested for harassing a seventeen years old boy. We have sent a SWAT team to his house.”

“I need a helicopter. Immediately,” said Mycroft.

Already leaving the room, he turned around and nodded at Sherlock. He was grateful to his brother for his help and empathy.

* * *

Barr’s house was situated in the country, in a quiet area of Suffolk where the distance between houses could be up to many miles of fields.

Mycroft’s helicopter landed next to the medevac helicopter. The SWAT team was already there and waiting for orders.

Mycroft had insisted at the very beginning that the whole operation was to be carried out by the military, not the police forces. He personally had chosen the commander in charge. 

As soon as he stepped out of the helicopter, Mycroft went to Major Robert Sagewick, who was very tall, dark-skinned, broad-shouldered and wore the feral expression of a very pissed-off man. He nodded at Mycroft and kept on instructing his men.

“I need body armour and a gun,” Mycroft said to the Major.

Sagewick turned to him and, surprised, stared at a definitely civilian Mycroft.

“No, Mr. Holmes, as the commander in charge I cannot allow it. You aren’t even supposed to be here.”

Mycroft suddenly got angry. Sagewick and he had come to MI6 at the same time, and, evidently, Robert still hadn’t learnt how to deal with important and powerful people.

“Then I’m taking charge of the operation.”

Silence was his only answer. The solders looked questioningly at Sagewick. They knew nothing about Mycroft, about his position and abilities.

“Cooper, gave him your equipment,” said Sagewick through clenched teeth.

Mycroft took off his expensive jacket, threw it onto the ground and started putting on a black tactical jumpsuit. The Major leaned into him, so that no one could hear them, and whispered, “To hell with formalities – what the fuck is going on? It’s not like our suicide mission in Iraq. What, you think we won’t be able to take down one psychopath? Mind you, I’m not asking why the hell I was called back from vacation; it’s enough for me that we’re saving a man, and I don’t care if he’s from the royal family or an ordinary guy.”

Mycroft’s hands were trembling, and he couldn’t fasten the belts on the jumpsuit. He thought with annoyance that he was losing his shape.

“Wait, he’s your son, right?” Sagewick asked suddenly.

Mycroft could hardly contain a hysterical laughter and didn’t answer. What could he say? Especially to the Major. It was even surprising that this seasoned, but brutally straightforward solder had managed to come up to this rank and hadn’t been MIA or KIA in the Middle East where all unhandy officers were sent to.

“I won’t contest your command.”

“That’s at least something,” Sagewick chuckled. “So, Holmes, you and me, like in the good old times? Jefferson, Rickwick--back doors; me and Holmes – front doors. Kellerman, you and your people – in the yard. When we’re in, we’ll let you know. Go!”

* * *

The old brick house with three floors and an attached barn-like extension had been previously owned by Barr’s parents and he had inherited it after their deaths.

There was light in some windows, but there was no movement inside. Suddenly two large bloodhounds rushed out of the doors, and Sagewick instinctively raised his gun, but lowered it when he realized that the dogs were not aggressive. They weren’t going to attack the uninvited guests; they were just greeting them.

Sagewick patted them and grumbled, “Useless creatures.”

Mycroft followed him into the hall and then into the living room. The house was obviously empty, but they still searched it thoroughly. It seemed that nothing had changed in the house for a long time: the furniture was solid, but old-fashioned, and the carpets that had once been beautiful now were shabby. Curtains with flower print and geraniums in pots on the windowsill completed the picture. 

“Jefferson, Rickwick, report,” said the Major into the radio.

“Nothing here, sir.”

Mycroft leaned on the wall. He needed to take a breath. The faint hope that he would find Greg alive died out.

“Cuckoo, cuckoo!”

Mycroft jumped at the unexpected sound and aimed his gun at a possible enemy which turned out to be a cuckoo clock. It was old, made of wood, and it was the ugliest clock that Mycroft had ever seen.

“Cuckoo!”

The brightly painted bird managed to leave its house for one more time before Mycroft grabbed it and wrenched out of the clock. The spring scratched his hand, but Mycroft ignored the pain.

“Are you all right?” Sagewick asked, turning his gaze from the broken clock to Mycroft’s arm.

“It’s merely a scratch.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Sagewick snorted. “Let’s go, we’re done here. I called the C&C the analysts and criminologists will soon be here. I’ll leave here a couple of my guys, just in case. This bastard can possibly come home.”

“I’ll stay and start looking around before the experts arrive. It’ll save us some time.”

“Good idea. You’re the best expert of all. I’ll just get out of your way.”

He left, and Mycroft looked around the living room, this time noticing even the slightest detail and mentally drawing up the killer’s profile.

The unchanged décor was a sign of a sentimental attachment to the past, and that implied that there should be a lot of photographs everywhere. But there were none on the walls, nor on the mantel, nor on the bookshelves.There wasn’t a single photograph. The Barrs had hidden their son from the world, maybe not being able to accept his condition, maybe protecting him from inevitable mockery and bullying. Richard Barr never went to school, had no friends and, apparently, almost never left the house. What Mycroft and the analysts took for the medical education was skills that Barr had learnt from his mother who was a nurse. Barr’s father had owned a successful construction company which was still profitable. This exact firm owned the car that Greg had got into this morning. 

The Barr’s happy and busy life ended when their first and only child was born with an extremely rare and untreatable disease called Harlequin ichthyosis. Richard’s father handed over his CEO seat to his partner, sold all his London property and moved with his wife and son to this country estate far from other people.

Richard’s parents taught him everything they knew. Richard learned from his mother how to stitch wounds, start an IV line and give shots. Hisfather taught Richard…

“Everything about construction,” Mycroft, who was already in the office on the second floor, mentally finished his thought.

There were blueprints of the house and plans of its remodeling on the table. Although they were not professionally done, they were thoroughly drawn.According to the date stamp on the plans, Barr decided to change the layout of the house right after his parents’ deaths.

Mycroft started putting the blueprints back into the folder, but paused with his hand in the air. Then he looked at the plans again.

“No, it can’t be. It would be too easy!” Mycroft could hardly believe his eyes. 

The next second he was rushing down the stairs.

He had finally found Greg!

* * *

While searching the house Mycroft and Sagewick had had no idea that there was another room that they hadn’t known about. The door to it was in the basement, hidden behind the shelves that were easily sliding aside. According to the remodeling plans , the walls of this hidden room were so thick that they could withstand a direct missile hit. Such rooms usually were built either by people with a paranoiac fear of a nuclear war, or by sadistic psychopaths who liked to kidnap and torture people. In the latter case the walls were, as a rule, soundproof.

Mycroft ran into the basement and hastily pushed aside the shelves, all at once. Jars with homemade preserves fell down and shattered with deafening noise. 

It was completely dark inside the room, but it wasn’t the first thing that Mycroft noticed. What his senses registered first was a heavy stench of blood and burnt meat, and also alcohol and iodine.

Mycroft froze at the doorstep: he suddenly became afraid of what he might find in this darkness. He tried to take a deep breath, but his throat tightened up, and he felt sick. 

“Collect yourself,” he said angrily to himself. “Pull yourself together and act.”

He felt the wall for the switch, and a moment later the darkness gave way to the light. And red.

Everything was red, of different shapes and forms. Splatters, splashes and streaks of red: dark, almost black on the floor and on the metallic table that Greg was tied to, mulberry on the walls that had once been white. Scarlet where blood hadn’t yet coagulated and dried. The blood seeped and flowed from the wounds, and it seemed that Greg’s whole body was one single open wound. Only his ghostly white face was clear.

Greg stirred.

“Please, no more, please…”

The voice was weak and pleading, almost delirious. It was the voice of a desperate man who had lost any hope.

“Greg,” Mycroft called him quietly, “Gregory.”

He came to the table and started removing the blindfold from Greg’s eyes. Mycroft’s hands were shaking. He said mostly to himself, not to Greg, “I finally found you.”

Greg’s eyelids fluttered and he squeezed them tightly.

“Please, don’t,” he pleaded again.

Mycroft’s only wish was to hug Gregory, hold him, protect him from the whole world, but the only thing he could do was to take Greg’s bloodied hand.

“This is me. Can you hear me? This is me, Mycroft. No one will hurt anymore, I promise you that.”

Greg finally opened his eyes slightly.

“Too bright, can’t see.”

“Everything is going to be fine.” The lump in Mycroft’s throat made it difficult to talk.

“Hurts, everywhere,” Greg complained.

“I know, dear heart, just hold on a bit longer. I am calling an ambulance.” Mycroft patted Greg’s hair and brushed aside his fringe wet from sweat.

Greg whispered something, and Mycroft had to lean to him so that he could hear what he was saying.

“I ruined everything, right? I’m so sorry, please, forgive me.”

Mycroft didn’t know what to say. Should he ask for forgiveness himself? But did he deserve it?

“Don’t think of it.”

The stairs leading to the basement creaked; someone was slowly coming down. Greg’s face distorted with terror.

“Hide!”

Greg thought that he shouted it out, but his voice was barely a whisper.

“Shhh, it’s all right. Close your eyes, dear heart,” Mycroft asked him softly. 

It wasn’t good for Greg to see his torturer’s face again.

“No!”

“Don’t open them until I say so. I will leave you just for a minute, promise. You have nothing to fear, not anymore.”

The footsteps stopped at the door.

“Come on, Greg, do as I say.”

Greg sobbed, but closed his eyes and whispered, “Don’t let him get to me!”

“I won’t. I swear.”

“I know that you’re not real. I close my eyes, and you’ll disappear. But he won’t, he’ll stay.”

Mycroft bent and kissed Greg’s dry chapped lips.

“Here,” he took the ring off his finger and put in into Greg’s hand. “Hold it tight and wait for my return.”

Out of the corner of his eyes Mycroft saw the figure of the killer at the doors. He turned – Barr stood silently at the doorstep, staring at Mycroft with his fish eyes which had lids turned inside out. His face was covered with a thick crust of horned skin which was cracked and peeling in some places.

Mycroft pointed the gun at him and nodded, ordering him to go out. Through his earpiece he asked Jefferson and Rickwick to come to the basement.

“No one came by us, sir, we wouldn’t have missed him,” said Jefferson later, handcuffing Barr.

Mycroft didn’t waste time explaining. They’d know from the report that there were a few underground shelters connected with the passages.

Mycroft went upstairs and called for the medevac helicopter.

Everything was over.

Greg was safe, and Barr was to spend the rest of his life in a hospital he wouldn’t be able to escape from.

Before going back to the hidden room in the basement, Mycroft looked for the last time at Barr who was crooked uncomfortably on the floor with his hands handcuffed behind his back.

Sensing Mycroft’s gaze Barr looked up and smiled sadly, “He was so perfect that I simply couldn’t resist.”

“Shut up!” growled one the solders, but Barr ignored him.

“Smooth silky skin… I’d give anything for such skin,” he said wistfully.

Mycroft should have felt sympathy for the poor sick man, but he suddenly realized that nothing was over. Greg’s scars would be with him forever, as well as the nightmares about what had happened to him. His torturer the serial killer would be savouring his memories, would be mentally doing what he had done to Greg and others over and over again, would dream of touching that perfect skin one more time, and meanwhile Greg would be jumping at every noise and waiting for another attack.

No, it wasn’t enough just to lock Barr away.

Mycroft had to do more for Greg.

He approached Barr calmly and steadily, pointed the gun at his forehead and pressed the trigger.

“Oka-a-ay,” drawled a perplexed solder, looking at the dead body at his feet.

“Oops,” the second solder was even more surprised and less articulate.

“Deal with this mess. I’m going back to Lestrade.”

* * *

“Mycroft?” asked Greg with fear and hope mixed in his voice.

His eyes had already got used to the light, and now he was staring hard at his savior.

“It’s over.”

“What? What happened? I heard a shot.”

“The helicopter will be here in a minute. I am going to release you now. Try not to move.”

“Where is he?”

“He is disposed of.”

“You killed him?” It was more like a statement than a question, and Gregory was evidently surprised at this thought.

Mycroft released his arm from the thick leather belt, massaged Greg’s wrist and, with some difficulty, unclenched his hand which was squeezing his ring. 

“He didn’t leave me a choice,” he said finally and added mentally, “Not after what he did to you.”

Greg sighed in relief and said, “I was waiting for you.”

* * * 

** Now **

Greg slowly woke from the dream that was actually a memory, induced by anesthesia, and looked around. He was in a familiar room of the private hospital which looked more like a suite of a nice hotel. Thick curtains didn’t let street lights in, but it wasn’t dark in the room: two lamps on the walls cast soft light on the bed and a chair in the corner where the ever-busy Mycroft was settling some business over the phone. His quiet voice and a bit of a tiresome hum of some medical device hooked to Greg, made a comforting background noise. 

Greg uncurled his hand, and a thin gold ring fell on the blanket. It was Mycroft’s wedding ring which was supposed to remind Greg about a reality where he was loved, cared for and protected from everything bad.

Mycroft noticed that Greg had awakened, quickly finished his conversation and came to the bed. During his short walk his expression changed a few times: first his face was just severe, then turned menacing, then cold, then again severe. But, apparently, he couldn’t make his mind about what to feel, so he just exhaled softly and sat on the bed.

“It is decided: I am taking a holiday.”

“Really?”

It was always a difficult task to persuade Mycroft to take even a few days’ leave, let alone a whole holiday. Greg couldn’t believe such luck.

“Why not?” Mycroft shrugged. “I’m thinking about that closed private beach in Spain where we had been four years ago.”

“Oh, come on, you hated that beach. You were constantly complaining about sand, too bright sun and heat, and you were just going mad from the idleness.”

“Who knows, maybe this time I will like it. After all, I am… getting old.” Then he made a face – one of his funny faces that meant that he was highly disgusted.

Greg snorted.

“It would be better for us to spend the time in Sussex. You’d be able to work from home and be with me.”

“Well, if you insist…” Mycroft pretended to be thinking it over.

“I certainly do.” Greg felt for the ring, took it and handed to Mycroft. He liked to watch Mycroft put it on his finger because every time this ordinary action looked solemn and meaningful.

“How are you?”

“As usual. Although this time I remembered that my knight in shining armour would come and save me.”

This time it was Mycroft’s turn to snort.

“Obviously, you are still drugged.”

Greg patted the unusually big hospital bed, inviting Mycroft to join him. Mycroft took off his jacket, then his shoes and lay down next to Greg.

“Nah, I’d never be able to view you differently, no matter what,” said Greg.

“I can only hope that you won’t understand one day how wrong you’ve been all this time. That you won’t realize that you have no more reason to love me,” Mycroft joked, but suddenly his face darkened.

Greg realized that today’s events had awoken not only his nightmares, but also Mycroft’s old doubts and worries.

He turned his head and nuzzled Mycroft’s shoulder.

“Yes, you must be really getting old. Did you forget that I fell in love with you at first sight? I was head over heels in love with you, and still am. Nothing has changed since then; you are my first and only love.

Lately they rarely talked about their feelings so openly, but there was no better time than the present.

“What an astonishing combination of ill luck and bad taste!” Mycroft’s bad mood was gone as quick and unexpectedly as it had settled.

Greg took his hand, kissed his palm and said jokingly, “By the way, I believed for a long time that you were with me out of misplaced guilt and pity.”

Mycroft looked at Greg with patronizing amusement.

“My dear boy, you were under a terrible delusion for I’m with you only because of your young chiseled body.”

Greg laughed and pulled Mycroft closer.

They were kissing carefully and unhurriedly, minding Greg’s injury and trying not to get things too interesting. Then they just lay silently and looked at each other for a long time.

When Greg started yawning, Mycroft said, “Go to sleep.”

“All right, but stay here, okay?”

“I will. Would you like me to read to you?”

“Yeah.”

Mycroft took a fresh “Times” from the bedside table, put on his glasses and started to read the political news out loud slowly.

Perfect, thought Greg falling asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

 

** Chapter 4 **

** Then **

Greg was staring at the floor in the psychologist’s office, patiently waiting for the meeting to be over. He was freezing. Nowadays he was always freezing, and even a warm sweater a few sizes big didn’t help.

“You have to help me for only then I’ll be able to help you.”

His new psychologist was no better than the last one. He was asking the same questions and giving the same useless advice. In fact, no, he was even worse because of his intrusive desire to establish eye contact with Greg.

Greg hid his hands into the wide sleeves and hunched even more, hiding from the prying eyes.

“I forgot what you asked.”

“Does your absent-mindedness keep on progressing?”

They had already cancelled his antidepressants, what now? Would they take away his sleeping pills too? Greg tried to pretend that he was interested in the conversation.

“Well, no, you asked if I’m dating anyone.”

“That would be a big step on your way back to normal life.”

“My friends stopped by the other week.”

“What about girls?” The psychologist looked at his notebook and corrected himself, “Or, perhaps, there is a boyfriend?”

Greg wrapped the sweater more tightly around him. The wounds had healed over the last six months, but no miracle had happened and a net of scars and burn marks hadn’t magically disappeared from his chest and stomach.

“Anyone would get sick looking at me.”

“Is that what you feel looking at your scars?”

Greg didn’t answer. He was tired of telling the doctors what he felt, accidently looking at his reflection. He had covered the mirror in the bathroom with paper and had been sure for a while that this problem was solved. But now it was clear that not seeing the white scars, gleaming in the light, didn’t help; knowing that they were there was enough. Greg just felt them. Always.

The psychologist wrote something down.

“I’m going back to the College of Policing.”

“Congratulations, that’s wonderful news. Are you ready for that?”

“More than ready.”

“I hope you’ll continue our meetings.”

“I don’t know. Well, maybe I’ll come by some day,” Greg said vaguely, knowing fully well that he’d have to come back. When he needed a new sleeping pills prescription.

* * *

“He has gotten worse,” Sherlock said.

Mycroft startled and looked away from the screen. He was so engrossed in watching the record of the Greg’s latest meeting with the psychologist that he didn’t notice Sherlock’s arrival.

“That’s because this doctor is incompetent,” Mycroft answered irritably.

“How many psychologists have you changed for him?”

“They were all incompetent!”

“Then help him himself.”

“We have already discussed it.”

“Removing yourself from his life isn’t helping him to get better.”

“If Gregory wants to see me, he knows where to find me.”

“Oh, yes, he certainly knows and will come, I’m sure of it. Just like I’m sure that Santa will come to you through the chimney at Christmas. You’ve read the psychologists’ reports! I never thought I’d see a day when your brain stops working.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

Mycroft’s lips twitched and stretched in an unpleasant smile,

“And I never thought I’d see you feel for a stranger.”

They looked at each other with contempt.

“Well, if Greg is a stranger to you, then I’m just wasting my time for I’ve come to say that I saw Greg buying coke.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Greg would never…” he trailed off seeing Sherlock’s nasty smirk.

“Next time I’ll offer to share a shot with him.”

Then he immediately left, not waiting for Mycroft’s reaction. 

Mycroft covered his face with his hands. He was so tired of this constant pretending!

A long time ago he heard a Japanese saying: “If you saved someone’s life you are responsible for him for the rest of your life.” Unfortunately, now Mycroft was responsible for Greg.

Unfortunately… Mycroft squeezed his eyes and rubbed his temples. Another lie. He was so used to pretending that now he was trying to lie to himself. There was nothing unfortunate in caring for Greg. It would have been the easiest, the most natural and desirable thing in the world to care for Greg, to help him heal his broken soul and gain balance and self-confidence again.

But who would help Mycroft himself after a healed Greg left? Mycroft, a skilled chess player who could think many moves ahead, didn’t doubt that Greg would leave. They were too different: significant age gap, different characters and tempers, different experiences, interests and positions. Mycroft couldn’t understand, no matter how thoroughly he was analyzing it, why he was so attracted to this boy. What was so special about him? Youth? But Mycroft never had young lovers. Innocence? Mycroft appreciated experience. Maybe he was flattered by the admiration and enthusiasm Greg had treated him with? But Mycroft was always surrounded with people who looked at him with assentation and trepidation. He was used to it and saw nothing especially flattering in this. And, besides, what could possibly be attractive in him for Greg? An illusion of the fantastic and singular sex that he could have only with Mycroft? That was also nonsense because soon enough Greg would want to try something new and would find out that Mycroft wasn’t an unparalleled lover. Gratitude for saving his life? But no gratitude lasted forever, and in a while people usually started first resenting and then hating those who they owed their life to, because people didn’t like to be in eternal debt.

Mycroft’s inner voice whispered that he could make Greg his forever. Everyone could be inconspicuously manipulated and controlled, especially such young, inexperienced and broken people like Greg. Mycroft could make anything he wanted out of him. It would take little effort to make Greg completely dependent on him. But it would be useless because Mycroft wanted an alive and real Greg, not an obedient puppet.

Mycroft groaned in despair. There was nothing he could do. For the last six months he had been staying away from Greg, watching him, controlling his life to an extent and looking for the right course of action. Looking, but not finding it.

* * *

Greg was standing in the far corner of the little square in front of the College, finishing his second cigarette and looking at the cadets and teachers rushing to the main entrance. Some of them he knew just by their names, others were his good friends in his past life, careless and joyful. The life that, it seemed, had ended a century or even a millennium ago. Now Greg couldn’t muster his strength and jump into the swirling stream of life flowing past him, couldn’t even approach it.

There was no place for him here anymore, he knew that, and that’s why he was hiding from his classmates. Only sheer stubbornness didn’t let him give up for good and made him come here three day in a row. He came, stood in the square, smoked a packet of cigarettes and went home.

“Greg! That’s Greg! Hey, people, Greg’s here!”

Greg startled and dropped the cigarette.His hands were shaking.

Jumping over the benches and running around the fountain, a small crowd of boys in cadet uniforms was rushing towards him. The only thing Greg wanted at the moment was to flee, but he didn’t even let himself lower his head. If there was something that he had learnt lately it was to control himself. He licked his dry lips and tried to smile. He would manage.

A tall fair-haired boy was the first to reach Greg. His name was Dan, and once they played in a band together.

“Mate, I’m so glad to see you!” he said and clapped Greg on the shoulder.

Another of Greg’s old friends and a football teammate hugged him with his huge hands and lifted him in the air, laughing as if it was extremely funny. Next everyone else was greeting Greg in different ways – someone pushed him in the shoulder, someone was shaking his hands, someone tried to hug him. Then they all started talking excitedly at once, and in the buzz of their voices Greg could hear only single words and phrases.

“…are the man!”

“…been all this time?”

“…hiding?”

“…local hero, everyone’s been talking about you.”

“Catching a psycho is so cool!”

“We changed the name of the band and now we’re Harlequin The Killer!”

“For you!”

“…our new bass player sucks.”

“Have you seen the last Arsenal game? Great, right?”

Greg tried to answer them, but all his answers were off the mark. But no one noticed his state. They kept on showering him with questions, interrupted his labored answers, laughed and poked him in friendly way. Greg tried to look normal, relaxed and calm, but it was getting harder to control the panic rising inside. The boys surrounding him were gradually stepping closer and closer to Greg, and it was harder and harder to breath.

“Show us your scars!”

“Yeah, show them. It must have been bloody cool, mate!”

A few hands reached for his sweater.

Sweat ran down Greg’s spine and his fringe plastered to his wet brow. He felt hot and chilly at the same time, and started breathing through his mouth, hard and fast. The circle of his friends was getting tighter and tighter, and Greg couldn’t escape this trap.

“God, please, let it stop!” Greg begged mentally.

Suddenly his wish was granted.

Someone coughed behind the boys – not loudly, but pointedly, and despite the ruckus everyone heard it.

“Gentlemen, I’d like to speak with Cadet Lestrade,” said a calm voice into the complete silence.

* * *

For the last three days Mycroft had been spending a few hours a day in a car, watching Greg. For the first time in the last six months he saw Greg in person, not on screen or through impersonal reports about his mental and physical state. Greg had changed: he started smoking, was always hunching and hiding in the large sweaters, and looked only down, not wishing to see the world that had caused him so much pain. He also clearly wished to be left alone by this world.

Mycroft also had changed: he was utterly exhausted by his inner struggle, and the number of cigarettes he smoked per day was reaching infinity. How many times in those three days was he seconds away from opening the door of the car and going to Greg? But each time he stayed in the car and kept on watching Greg. His hope that Greg would throw away the stub any minute now and enter the college died away.

When some young men gathered around Greg, Mycroft tensed, but then he realized that they were just other cadets and that there was no threat for Greg. According to the Greg’s personnel file, his peers liked and respected him, and he was a natural leader. Who knew, maybe now the support of his old friends was necessary, even vital for Greg’s recovery? Greg would get better and return to his old normal life where Mycroft didn’t belong.

It was clear that he had done the right thing and hadn’t interfered openly. That way Mycroft Holmes wouldn’t become a subject to jokes about an elderly sponsor of a certain young cadet, Greg wouldn’t be ashamed being seen with him, wouldn’t start avoiding him and therefore would never leave him.

That was enough! It was high time to stop this madness. He was going to leave now and would never come back neither here, nor in Greg’s life. He would even cross Greg’s name from his memory.

Mycroft cast one last glance at Greg and was astonished to see hopeless desperation frozen on his face.

“What on Earth are they doing?!”

He completely forgot about his vows to himself and left the car.

* * *

When “gentlemen” gave him way, Mycroft came close to Greg and said, “I am here.”

Greg blinked and echoed, “You are here.”

His friends started dissipating, but Greg didn’t even nod them. He was staring at Mycroft. He leaned towards him a bit, but instantly shrank back and stilled. Then he shook his head as if in answer to his thoughts. And only when Mycroft spread his hands invitingly, Greg hugged him. Carefully, as if still not believing that he was allowed to do that.

Mycroft caressed his back, sliding his hand over his sharp shoulder blades and prominent vertebra. Because of the oversized sweaters it wasn’t clear before how much weight Greg had lost. Now the two of them were a very suitable couple – both ghostly pale, with huge dark circles under their eyes, and both equally lonely and desperate.

“He took everything from me,” Greg said softly. “Everything I ever dreamt of, everything I wanted. I can’t even return to the College.”

“Everything will be fine. You will get better and will do whatever you wish to. You just need more time.”

“I lost you.”

“But you have found me again, as you see.”

“You came here, but that’s not enough. Had I been like I was before, I would have been able to… to conquer you.” 

It was even funny for Mycroft had long felt as if had been a prisoner of this boy, completely harmless at the first sight.

“I’m ready to surrender right now and be conquered on the spot.””

“Don’t lie to me!” Greg disentangled from Mycroft’s embrace and stepped back, looking at Mycroft with hurt. “Everyone lies to me out of pity.”

Before Mycroft could contradict, Greg went on, “I’m disgusting now. I cannot stand myself. You saw me peed in my pants, what can be worse? Only my scars.”

With his every word a sharp ache flared in Mycroft’s chest. Only now he realized what a bastard he had been. He was wallowing in misery, pitying himself and making complicated excuses for his inaction and keeping distance, and meanwhile Greg was fighting with his fears all alone.

“Trust me, you cannot be objective at the moment. Your perception of reality is distorted…”

Greg interrupted him, lifting up for a second the hem of his sweater. 

“Don’t talk to me like a fucking shrink!” he said with annoyance. “Everything’s fine with my perception of reality. This is reality. I’m a pathetic ugly freak, Mycroft! Not only in appearance: I can’t sleep without pills and can hardly force myself go outside. I can’t stand hospitals, especially its smells, and I jump when a car pulls near, I…”

Greg was getting more and more agitated, and Mycroft, realizing that words wouldn’t be enough, interrupted him by sneaking his hand under Greg’s sweater and caressing the uneven skin. He didn’t let Greg go when he tried to pull free.

“It pains me what he did to you. You say that you are disgusting, but I see in front of me a man who went through hell and survived.”

“Can you promise me that the scars will disappear? Or that one day I’ll forget about all these?”

“No.”

“Then what’s the point? Why did you come here? I didn’t ask for this, didn’t look for you! Just like you didn’t care how I was doing.”

“You were discharged from the hospital on the 28th of November after two months of treatment. It was more than expected because of the infection you caught there. You were advised to see a psychologist, and you visited four specialists. You had a skin grafting – a patch of skin was taken from your thigh to cover a burn mark on you left side. You moved back to you mother’s, but came back to London in three weeks. Should I go on?”

“How do you know that?”

“I did and do care.”

Mycroft saw a faint light of hope flickered in Greg’s eyes. And that was enough to fill his soul with warmth. At last he was doing something right!

“Scars don’t determine who you are, they are just data about you past. And you and only you decide what to do with this data. I don’t let anyone into my home and into my heart. I don’t trust anyone and don’t like people in general. No one loves me in return. I’m not handsome and never been. I’ve got a long nose and I’m getting bald, for God’s sake!

Greg snorted, and Mycroft went on, inspired by this success, “People are afraid of me because of what I can do to them, and that suits me. But when I was your age it wasn’t enough for me. I wanted to look like a dangerous and graceful predator and the thought that I looked more like an owl was killing me.”

He tilted his head to the side and made wide eyes, trying to look like a bird. Greg’s eyes also widened, but for different reason.

“That’s such rubbish!”

Mycroft kept on his silly grimace until Greg started laughing, but then he stilled, surprised and not believing that he was still capable of feeling joy.

Mycroft also smiled. He was ready to talk nonsense, walk on his hands and juggle his umbrella if that made Greg happy.

“It’s different, you aren’t and weren’t like me,” Greg said stubbornly.

“Not that different. That is my reality, just like your scars are your reality, and we cannot change it. But thanks to you I see now that it is possible to build another reality where all our flaws and disadvantages, true or imaginary, wouldn’t matter. A reality for the two of us. I can live in it, but you have to help me build it. I won’t be able to do it without you.”

Not removing his hand from under Greg’s sweater, with the tips of the fingers of his other hand Mycroft stroked Greg’s cheek from the temple to the corner of the mouth. 

Somewhere in the distance they heard whistles and catcalls – apparently the cadets had been discreetly watching them all this time. Mycroft became a subject to some stupid strangers’ sneers, but right now it didn’t matter.

Greg no longer tried to get free; on the contrary, he leaned into Mycroft, seeking comfort and consolation. Mycroft knew that he could give it to him, and not only it, but much more – he could give Greg all of himself, without reservation. 

Tenderness rose from the farthest corners of his soul and seized him, like an inevitable tide washing over the shore. For the first time in his life Mycroft let himself open to someone, and now he was drowning the emotions, overwhelming him.

He couldn’t go back to his former life now. He was lost.

And if fate wasn’t merciful to him… then to hell with it!

* * *

** Now **

Stock market data, another Balkan conflict, rumored Cabinet of Ministers resignation… Mycroft read all the news, knowing that Greg was equally uninterested in any of it. He didn’t stop when Greg woke up. Since Greg didn’t show it, Mycroft saw no reason to stop reading. 

Greg knew that Mycroft was aware that he had already woken up. He always knew that, felt with some sixth sense. Then again, Greg also could always tell whether Mycroft was asleep or not.

Greg woke up from a dream where he again talked to Mycroft at the College, just like all those years ago. But then Greg hadn’t understood fully what Mycroft had tried to tell him, he had just trusted him. Only years later Greg realized the importance of the promise that Mycroft gave him. They indeed managed to build a new reality just for the two of them. And it wasn’t like a daydream for Mycroft was incapable of building such unstable constructions as air-castles. So their own reality was more like a safe house: sturdy, multifunctional and protected from everything and everyone by British secret services. Greg felt safe and comfortable there. In fact, he turned out to be lucky all in all. Mycroft did much for the country and people he didn’t care for simply out of duty. What he did for people he loved was incomprehensible. Greg never tried to imagine the force and extent of Mycroft’s care for him, he just accepted it and gave in return the only thing he could – his love. In the last fifteen years they both, he and his love, had changed a lot. They both got mature. Just like his love got stronger and unwavering, Greg himself got stronger and experienced; there was little left in him from that young and naïve cadet he once was. Although from time to time he suffered from the nightmares, they couldn’t break him anymore. Besides, Mycroft would never let it happen.

There was a knock at the door, and someone entered the room, not waiting for the answer.

Mycroft stopped reading for a second, and then carried on as if they were still alone. Perhaps Greg should have opened his eyes to see who had come, but he was too tired and lazy to that.

“Ahm, well, hi.”

John, then.

“I told you that there was no need to come here. What are we here for?”

What was Sherlock doing here?John must have dragged him here by force. 

“Gregory is asleep and I don’t want him to be disturbed,” Mycroft deigned to say.

Greg decided to prove his words and snored.

“Dear heart, you would be interested in this: ‘The reaction of the investors who control stock markets demonstrated their attitude towards American conjuncture…’ ” Mycroft read it in an exaggeratingly tedious tone which was clearly a joke.

Greg managed to contain his laughter, but still turned his head into the pillow and chuckled. Afraid to be exposed he artistically snored.

“I should say, I completely agree with the investors,” Mycroft couldn’t help but tease.

Greg imagined how Sherlock, having guessed about their game, rolled his eyes, while John was staring uncomprehendingly at them all. Now Greg was even more amused than before.

“Hmm, right, we’ll go then,” John said awkwardly.

Greg was not in the slightest ashamed of his pretending.

“Good day, Dr. Watson, Sherlock.”

A second later Greg heard John saying in the corridor, “Your brother talks to Greg when he is asleep?”

“Awake, asleep – there is no difference.”

“Prat!” Greg grumbled, but not especially upset. He no longer reacted to Sherlock’s offensive remarks.

“That’s not what he meant,” Mycroft said. “A few times he saw me talking to you when you weren’t around.”

“Really?” Greg was so surprised that he even lifted his head from the pillow.

“I know you well enough to know what you’d say in any circumstances.”

“You also know that this usually happens with dull predictable people and boring relationship, right?”

“There is nothing boring or predictable in my mental conversations with you. This is how I relax during hard work or long flights. Should I call a doctor? You have to be examined.”

“Hmm, just remember the difference between sex with real me and imaginary me, all right? Don’t call a doctor, let’s just lay for a while. You haven’t finish reading about the investors.”

Mycroft turned a few pages, looked though a sport page and started reading news about football that Greg would surely be interested in.

Fin


End file.
